Dauthleikr
by A Ghost Who Walks
Summary: When the great leader of the Riders, Anurin, reforges the pact of Riders to include humans, his decision is very unpopular. And when it seems like the worst possible candidate for a Rider is chosen, he wonders if he made a mistake. Will the new Rider be able to combat prejudice, contempt, and his own ineptitude? Or will he fail, and prove that his race was never meant to be Riders?
1. Prologue: The Reforging

The slow sound of chanting filled Anurin's ears, and he mentally ran over the spell one last time.

_Once this is done, there is no turning back_, he realized. _The world will be changed, and I will have wrought it…will I be hailed as a hero, or as a fool? _Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair.

_It is necessary, iet fricai, _rumbled the deep, yet still feminine voice of his beloved dragon, Miramel. _The duty of the Shur'tugal is to preserve peace in Alaga__ё__sia, and this is the only way, other than complete annihilation of the round-ears-short-lives._

A small smile slipped over the Rider's face. _Thank you, iet hjarta…yet still, I worry…if this goes wrong-_

_Enough, small one. It will succeed…and I will always stand by you, no matter what, _Miramel interrupted. _You will be revered as the greatest hero who ever lived…the other race will worship you. _

_Aye, perhaps…though I fear that I have already alienated my people._

It was true. Except for a select few, the spellcasters he had gathered all wore identical expressions of stony disapproval.

A soft growl rippled through his mind. _They will not dare to lay a hand on either you or the round-ears-heart-bound. Not while I'm around._

Anurin chuckled lightly. _I'm sure they would not, my fierce one._

Miramel hummed with pleasure, then gave the mental equivalent of a nudge. _Go. _

Nodding grimly, Anurin stepped to the center of the clearing, looking around at the gathered elves. He cleared his throat, letting a smile adorn his face.

"Friends," he said, "Today, we have gathered here to add to this great bond that has been formed between us and the noble dragons. We stand at the threshold of great change…and it _will _be for the good."

Glancing round at his people, he cringed inwardly at their tense, set faces. Miramel sent him waves of comfort, and he gratefully acknowledged it.

"What is this momentous change, you might ask?"

He spread his arms wide, then gestured to an older man…a human. The man-Havard-stood a little apart from the elves. A grizzled grey beard covered his jaw, and his face was lined with age. Havard was the human ambassador, chosen for his peaceful and compromising nature. A smile nearly spilt his face in two, giving him the appearance of a weather-cracked stone.

Anurin nodded his way. "We are going to add the humans to our pact with the dragons."

Dead silence.

"This will be a time of great change to us all, even myself. But with effort and understanding, we will be the stronger for it," he said, forcing a smile to his face. "Peace will reign once more in our fair land, as it has for so many years since the founding of our glorious order."

Well, at least the last statement got a positive reaction from the crowd. Or at least they weren't scowling as much.

"Without further ado…"

Anurin clapped his hands together.

Moving in perfect synchronization, the Caretakers, Iduna and Nёya stepped forwards, white robes glimmering palely in the low light. They moved to the center of the clearing, standing back to back like two slender white birches. As one, they unclasped the ornate brooches at their throats, letting the robes fall to the mossy ground. The dragon tattoo lay dormant over them, its magic still in stasis. Twining arms together, they melded the two sides of the dragon together, forming a glorious, jewel-toned dragon that spread over both of their bodies.

The elves sat, voices hushed.

Then Iduna and Nёya both raised a bare foot, bringing it down with a soft thump upon the ground.

Again.

And again.

The drums began their pounding, sending a thrum that Anurin felt somewhere in his chest.

The harps rang out, sending chords like liquid honey, flowing slowly and majestically under the heartbeat of the drums.

Then the flutes joined in, a wild, fey melody weaving into the solemn music of the harps and drums, giving it life and breath.

The Caretakers began their dance, slowly, regally at first, then gaining more and more speed. Their bodies swayed, rippling in such a way so that it seemed the dragon was moving, not them. Singing a complicated spell, the two signaled the other elves to join.

A wild, mad sound pulsed through the clearing, both of instrument and of voice. Miramel hummed beside him, swaying in rhythm to the pounding beat.

Anurin felt tears glaze his eyes. This was what being a Rider truly was. _I'm part of this_, he realized, as if for the first time. Then it dawned upon him. _Who am I to deny this to the human? Who are we? _ For the first time, he knew he had made the right decision. Miramel sent vague pride along their link, but was too caught up in the wild magic to say anything more.

Iduna and Nёya moved faster and faster, bodies blurring, except for that dragon.

The spellcaster's voices rose to a fever pitch, as did the music.

A flicker of living fire ran along the length of the dragon, and its maw opened.

Suddenly, it flared its wings, ripping itself from the bodies of the Caretakers.

It hovered over the elves, fire rippling down its spine, jaws open in a fearsome roar. Surveying them, sharp eyes not seeming to miss anything. Then a voice rippled through Anurin's mind. It sounded like a fire would sound, like a beast from a volcano, like the element of the eternal flame.

_Why have you called us up, Shur'tugal Ebrithil? _it asked, eyes glaring at him balefully.

_To renew peace through the land, o great one. I seek to add the humans to the bond forged between our species so long ago_, he answered, voice only shaking a little.

The fire-dragon seemed to ponder that. Anurin began to fear that it would never answer, then,

_If it will keep the peace and cause the shur'tugalar to prosper, we have no qualms, and will support you. _

He nodded. _Vel e__ϊ__nradhim iet ai Shur'tugal, I will not fail you._

Vague amusement echoed from the fire-dragon's mind. _No, you will not._

Unsure of what to make of that, Anurin began his spell, relying on the strength of the many Riders and dragons that had accompanied him. It was a complex spell, made of the same magic thaty had first birthed Alagaёsia from its womb of ice and fire long ages ago. His voice rose feverishly, sweat trickling down his face. He felt Miramel's and the others' exhaustion, but kept chanting.

Then he spoke the final words.

A shudder wracked his frame, and he felt _something _change in the world, something with the Rider bond. It felt different, somehow…but right.

Smiling wearily, Anurin rose to his full height.

"It is done!" he cried.

A new world had been opened, new possibilities open for exploration. Would this endeavor result in glory or failure?

Only time would tell.

**Hey, guys…please drop me a line telling me if I should continue. **

**-Ghost**


	2. Chapter 1: Ivar

The gulls cried their timeless song, and the sun rose over the water like a large golden fruit as Ivar Havardsson ran the rough hemp of the net through his hands. The boy yawned, rubbing the crusty remnants of sleep from his blue eyes. Still, he didn't mind rising before dawn; he was used to it, and it was part of the timeless routine of the fisherman. Orders will come and go, empires will rise and fall, but the man at his plow, the woman in her home, and a man with his boat will endure through the ages.

But no such grand thoughts filled young Ivar's mind that morning. He was thinking along the lines of many young men; that is, of the sex which had seemed so foreign, but had recently become attractive…girls.

With one year from manhood, a wife and children didn't seem so distant, and Ivar had just begun to notice the way Kaja's hair rippled down her back, or how pretty Eir's smile was. It both thrilled and sent a jolt of fear through him when he noticed sly gazes fall on himself when he helped his father haul in his nets after a long day of fishing.

Looking back down at his work, he wondered briefly of Surin, the comeliest girl in his fishing village, and if she would consent to sit by him at the midsummer festival. He quickly brushed it off. Surin had a crowd of friends, and she seemed to be successful in setting the hearts of most young men a-throb with the slightest bat of her lashes. Too much competition. Besides, Surin was the daughter of one of the village elders, and would most certainly go for a man with more to offer than fishing. And he had pushed her into the dung-heap several years ago, and he guessed that she hadn't forgotten the deed.

Laughing softly at the memory of her flushed red face and hands jammed to her hips, he shook his head once more, glancing at the rough strands he wove.

"'Tis a good weave," he said to himself. "Da himself couldn't do much better. Wish he'd would've taken me."

About several days earlier, his father had taken the boat down south, hugging the coastline. He had heard that the developing town of Kuasta had a hankering for good fish from the north, and had taken a great haul of _lyr_, along with several _kveite_, down to the town. Ivar's chest had swelled when his Da had patted his shoulder like a man, and solemnly told him to keep watch over his mother and siblings. Though Ivar wasn't the eldest, his oldest brother Helgi had married, and now had three children and a wife of his own to provide for. Though he was proud that his father had treated him like a man, he still longed to see places outside of his village.

Standing slowly, he leaned against the wattle-and-daub of his house.

"Mayhap I could be a sailor, like Uncle Nils," he said, shading his eyes and looking out to the horizon. "Travel to great ports, see the world. Uncle went as far as Eoam, and did see those crystals. Or he got drunk. Sure seemed like something a drunk man would tell, and I heard grog flows plentiful on sailing ships."

The tales his favorite uncle had told, of huge whirlpools and floating crystals, had been the talk of the village for weeks, until Torval Olavsson had caught a lobster full three axe-handles long, with claws that looked like they could chop off a man's hand.

"Ivar the Bold," he muttered, then repeated it louder. "Ivar the Bold, cap'n of his bonny ship, bane of pirates-"

Loud giggles interrupted him.

"Oooh, he'll have a fleet of corsairs at his every beck and call," cackled his younger sister, Ellisif, throwing her head back in laughter.

Her friend, Bjork, tossed her sun-bleached black hair over her shoulders. "Aye, and a host of fetching lasses hanging onto his every word. Give our good cap'n a hearty aye-aye, right, me hearties?"

The girls clutched each other for support through gales of merriment. "Aye-aye!"

Ivar crossed his arms, attempting a scowl, but their happiness was contagious. A grin spread over his face, and he crossed his arms. "But I already have fetching lasses hanging onto my every word."

Ellisif stopped laughing, then giggled. "Ivar! Don't be a tease."

Bjork blushed slightly, smiling shyly.

"Who said I was teasing?" Ivar retorted, ruffling Ellisif's hair with a calloused hand. He struck a pose. "Now, to return the compliment…"

Leaning into his hand with a content sigh, Ellisif smiled up at him mischievously. "I'm sure Bjork would, if she-"

The older girl slapped her arm, flushing hard. "Shut your mouth, 'Sif."

"Well, I notice you aren't denying it…"

Ivar shook his head, leaving the girls brush their hair and discuss how Bjork had been fortunate enough to see Ulric Torvalsson unloading crates in the rain.

"His muscles rippled like the millpond that I seen while visiting Aunt Sanna," was the last thing the teen heard before he was out of earshot.

He snorted.

"Flirting with my girl, Ivar?" called Bjork's mother good-naturedly, brushing her thick hair out of her eyes with a scale-sprinkled forearm. She knelt over the large fish she was scaling, then motioned him over. "Here, boy," she said, handing him a fish. "Give it to your ma, an' it please you? This babe she carries is harder on her than most, and sits overlong in the womb."

Ivar nodded gratefully, taking the slippery fish, taking care not to drop it. "Thanks, my lady," he said with a mock bow.

She laughed. "You're a charmer, Ivar Havardsson, if there ever was one."

He grinned back. "Who, me?"

Shaking her head, she nudged him away. "Careful with my daughter, boy."

Holding the fish to his chest, Ivar hurried through the village toward Ragnvald's house. He had a horse and cart, and Ivar intended to ask him whether or not he could borrow it. He and Ulric had gone fishing together, and they were going to cart their catch into nearbyTeirm.

Halfway there, he realized that he should get that fish to his mother before it began to stink, so he half-ran once again to his house, noting with pride how he had to duck a bit to get into the doorframe.

His mother sat on a crude wooden stool, one hand on her swollen belly. She smiled wearily as her son entered the shack. "Ivar…you have fished this morning? Already?"

He shook his head, kneeling beside her and taking a small hand into his own. "Bjork's ma, Kallan, gave it to us. 'Cause of the baby, I reckon."

Inclining her head in acknowledgment, his mother placed his hand over her stomach. "Feel that?" she asked softly.

At first he felt nothing, then something bumped beneath his finger. He gave his mother a startled glance.

She laughed quietly. "The babe," she said. "He's letting us know he's there."

"Or she."

"Or she," his ma agreed. "We never know what the gods will send us. Why, I thought little Njal was a girl, sure and certain." She patted the little tow-headed boy who played with a stone beside her. "Sometimes I wonder if the child will ever come."

Ivar tilted his head, slightly embarrassed by the direction the conversation was heading. "Never did hear of a babe who was never borned."

His ma laughed again. "I reckon I never, either. The child just wants to stay where it's warm, safe, and familiar, is all." Her expression grew pensive. "Wonder if we're all like that…we don't want to go out into the unknown, it's scary…but here I'm rambling again."

Opening his mouth to reply, Ivar was interrupted by a _thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

He peered out the door. "Dragons, ma!" he called, scooping up little Njal. "Look, Njal. Dragons!"

The entire village was standing, wide-eyed and gaping mouthed, as about five jewel-toned dragons flew overhead. Ivar distinctly saw a rider on a sunny yellow dragon wave as the whole pack flew toward Teirm with a noise like thunder.

Lifting Njal to his shoulders, he once again said, "Look, Njal!"

But the little boy was absorbed in his stone.

**There you go. The names are in Norse…Njal, Ivar, Surin, etc., as this is set further north. Plus I just like the feel of it. The fish names are northern fish in Norse, also…**

**Lyr=Pollock**

**Kveite=halibut**

**Read and review, an' it please you, fellowmen!**

** -Ghost**


	3. Chapter 2: The Task Begins

_I just can't believe Anurin would condone such a thing! _Vrael muttered to Umaroth as he packed.

_The Shur'tugal Ebrithil didn't just condone this…_abomination_. He instigated it_, Umaroth growled, dislike of their leader's decision clear. Vrael could sense him kneading his talons in and out of the earth.

_Aye_, Vrael agreed, _It just makes no sense. He was always so wise…what possessed him to allow humans into the Shur'tugal bond? _

_Anurin always veered on being a radical, dear one. Why do you seem so surprised?_

Chuckling bitterly, Vrael tightened the last strap on his pack, lifting it to his shoulders. He adjusted his sword, Islingr, on his belt, the cool feel of the hilt somewhat comforting. _I don't really know, Umaroth…he had spoken of it before, but I'd always credited it to his visionary tendencies. I never dreamed that he would actually…_

_Miramel had informed me that he was truly serious, but I dismissed it as her loyalty to her hjarta-fricai, and her unwillingness to admit that he was wrong_, Umaroth remarked. _Now, are we going to speak of this great error all day, or are we going to perform our duty?_

A sour look settled upon Vrael's face. Directly after the human rats had been inducted into the bond, Anurin had informed Vrael that he was to be the leader of the group commissioned to find the human Rider. Vrael hadn't been pleased, but had known better than to disrespect the leader of their order. He had been given four other Riders, chosen for their strength in arms, ability in magic, and for evenness of temperament.

He looked over the list.

_Delois, Rider of Freyja_

Vrael nodded in approval over that choice. Delois had been a student of his, and her skill with gramyre was far beyond her years.

_Forseti, Rider of Adurna._

Again, good choice. Bragi was quite good with weapons, and had killed a pair of lethrblaka at the young age of ninety-eight, though he was now a century and a half.

_Zisa, Rider of Briam._

Zisa was also a good candidate. She was good with the blade, and was calm and even-tempered, with natural diplomatic skills.

The next name made Vrael's brow furrow in confusion.

_V__á__li, Rider of Dellingr. _

"Again, I must question Anurin's judgment…" Vrael muttered.

Váli was…exuberant. He was impulsive, cheerful, and very inexperienced, having only just gotten out of apprenticeship. He had caused Vrael many a headache, as his well-meaning mistakes wrought havoc on the calm system of the Riders, from accidentally creating a spell that rendered the senses null for a day, and nearly destroying a newly erected section of buildings in the pristine headquarters of Vroengard.

Though he had apologized profusely, the carefree elf still irked the Rider, and he gritted his teeth at the thought of having to deal with the young Rider's questions during the whole journey.

"Who am I to question my leader's wisdom?" he asked himself bitterly, repeating the refrain that had been his ever since that fateful spell.

Shrugging, he took one last look at his simple room, wishing that he didn't have to leave. Then he went to the door, opening it slowly. Glancing back for only a moment, he latched the door shut, heading toward the still unfinished streets of Vroengard.

Only a few were up at so early an hour, and the ones that were huddled around glowing erisdar of assorted colors. Laughter erupted from one such circle, and Vrael sighed wistfully at the thought of leaving it all for the sake of a dauthleikr.

A tall elf-maid with black hair pinned up in a neat bun broke away from the group, sunset-orange sword swinging by her side. "Vrael-elda," she called. "My bond and the others await us outside the gate."

"Zisa-ære," he greeted with a nod as she walked beside him. "What is the mood among the Riders?"

Zisa's expression grew guarded. "Atra nosu waíse vardo fra eld hórnya," she muttered, thus allowing them to converse without worry of eavesdroppers. "The people are furious," she said quietly. "They resent this new addition –they say corruption – of the Rider bond. I have tried to smooth things out, but Wyrda knows if I have succeeded…there is so much hate."

"Ah," he said, trying to think of the words he needed. "…And…do you agree?"

Zisa sighed. "I know not anymore. Humans have never been our friends…we've even gone to war against each other. Yet…I do not feel as though we have the right to exclude them…my heart is confused."

Vrael nodded again. "I see…my feelings of opposition, I fear, may hinder this effort."

"You must put it aside, Vrael-elda," Zisa advised. "Alagaёsia will never be at peace if our races do not reconcile with one another."

"Your advice is appreciated, Zisa-ære, but please refrain from any more. I do not need yet another telling me this."

Zisa bowed her head. "Nen ono weohnata."

Jaw tight, Vrael gave the younger Rider a curt nod, continuing with her to the gates. Though the streets were dark, the enhanced senses of the elves did not need lights; nonetheless, jewel-toned erisdar shone forth from many nooks, giving some color to the pre-dawn greyness.

_Umaroth? _

_I wait with my kin, dear one. Make haste; the sun draws near to the horizon_, his beloved dragon replied.

_Aye._

Quickening his steps, the Rider called, "Hasten on, Zisa-ære. The day grows near to the time of its birth."

Making no reply other than slipping into a half-run, Zisa caught up to him, pointing wordlessly to the gates.

Just before they exited the gates, Vrael hesitated for one long moment. He looked back longingly, hand lingering on the walls. Then he sighed, following the female Rider out to where their dragons waited.

Joy welled up deep within him as he saw Umaroth, white scales almost glowing in the dim light. The large, stocky dragon spread his wings as his Rider came into view, growling good-naturedly, _Took you long enough._

Vrael merely shook his head and rubbed his dragon's muzzle.

Across from the pair, Forseti sat astride his sky-blue dragoness, his silver hair whipping about his face from the fresh breeze that was coming from the sea. Smiling and bowing his head respectfully, he finished the adjustments to his saddle. "Greetings, Vrael-elda," he called, Adurna lowering her head.

His twin sister, Delois, echoed his greeting, while Briam flared his amethystine wings as he prepared for flight. _Good morning, Vrael-elda, partner of Umaroth_, greeted the purple dragon, his voice as deep and as rumbling as Igualda Falls after the rains.

"And to you also, Briam," Vrael said in reply.

_It seems like storm weather to me_, said a low voice, sighing in a dismal way. The voice was that of Dellingr, the bonded partner of Váli. The cheerful yellow of Dellingr's scales was the polar opposite of his pessimistic, melancholy attitude. Vrael liked it; it balanced out Váli's annoyingly cheerful and enthusiastic personality.

Speaking of the devil…

"Hi, Vrael-elda!" Váli chirped, bowing. "Isn't this going to be fun? Where are we going first?"

_Patience, dear one_, Umaroth warned. _He is but young, yet._

Nodding thankfully, Vrael took a deep breath. "It might be interesting to see the culture of the humans," he said in a neutral voice. "And we are going to the Palancar Valley first."

He was aware that the cheerful young Rider kept talking, but Vrael concentrated instead on climbing up upon Umaroth's back and strapping himself in. He drew his sword, prompting the others to do the same.

_May the sun and winds go at our backs, _said Umaroth.

"May the stars guide us," intoned Vrael.

Then all present said together, "And may Wyrda protect us."

A crimson sun rose over the edge of the horizon.

**I used the names of Norse deities for some of the characters: Forseti, Dellingr, Váli, Zisa, Freyja. **

**However, I also used Briam, which was/is an actual dragon mentioned once in the first book, and Adurna and Delois have meanings in the Ancient Language, the former being 'water', and the latter being a flower. **

**I was rather appalled that Paolini was sexist enough not to include many honorifics for females. So I had to toy with Norse a bit before coming up with 'ære', which means 'honored'.**

**-ære=an honorary suffix, symbolizing middling respect. Equivalent to 'vodhr', except this is for females.**

**Atra nosu waíse vardo fra eld hórnya=Let us be warded from listeners.**

**Nen ono weohnata=As you will.**

**Wyrda=Fate**

**Did you like it? If so, review and let me know?**

**Did you hate it? Review, so that I might improve.**

**Did you not give a crap? Well, then, review and tell me that.**

** ~Ghostie**


	4. Chapter 4

Resting an elbow on the rough wooden table, Ivar leaned forwards on his bench, grabbing a piece of smoked eel to go with his coarse bread. His mother watched him eat with a gentle smile on her face.

Chewing thoughtfully, he picked off little bits of bread and popped them into his mouth, enjoying the flavor. It seemed like there was a bit more than usual… He looked up, realization spreading over his face. "You gave me your bread!"

"I wasn't hungry, Ivar. You were, and you have a long day ahead of you," his mother said, cuddling Njal closer to her chest. The little boy stuck his thumb into his mouth, other hand playing with his mother's long hair.

"Mum, you're…well, you're…you have a babe," Ivar retorted, coloring once again. "I'd 'a been fine."

He shoved his leftover fish into her hand. "Eat."

She pinched her lips together, shaking her head. "Nay, that I won't."

"Then I'm not leaving."

"But the younglings-" she started, but Ivar cut her off.

"-Need you to eat. Mum, it can't be good for you, eating as little as you do," he said, starting to rise to his feet. "Da told me to take care of you all while he was gone. It be no trouble at all, Mum. Just you eat…please?"

Smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, his mother raised the fish to her lips. "You know I can never say no when you look at me like that. Like a lonesome puppy, it is."

"Eat."

Shaking her head, she ate the fish, and then licked the remaining oil off her fingers. "Thank you, though 'twasn't needed."

"Sure, an' the sun rises in the south," Ivar retorted. "Mum, I worry. You hardly be eating anything…'tisn't healthy, Mum."

His mother's face softened, and she rubbed his hand. "You call to mind your da more an' more ev'ry day, son. But don't worry for me…not the first time I've had a babe."

"I know, I know," he replied, rising from the table. "Kinda hard not to see, Mum," he pointed out, gesturing to Njal, the twins playing in the dust, Ellisif coming up from washing.

She only nodded. "Why don't you take some of your carvings? They fetched a good price last time, an' a lord, he was asking after them."

"Really?" he asked, feeling a grin start to spread over his face. He ran over to the little niche in the wall, pulling aside the rag that covered it. He took out his tools carefully, then his carvings, a proud smile playing about his lips.

Laying a figurine of a perching gull on the bench, he ran practiced hands over the smooth surface of a carving of a mermaid combing her hair while sitting upon a rock. Her hair streamed back, almost seeming to ripple, while her mouth was open in song. She leaned forwards, muscles taut under the skin of her back, her tail curved and graceful.

Another one was of a sea serpent, jaws open and dripping, and tattered shreds of seaweed hanging from its serpentine frame. Each and every scale was clearly defined, down to even the smallest of barnacles. He had affixed a baleful glare to its wooden face, and Njal shivered every time he saw it.

A sleek dolphin chiseled out of soft stone and polished with sand until it was silky to the touch seemed to erupt out of a spray of water, omnipresent smile curving at just the right angle.

But here, _here_, was his favorite.

A selkie, a seal-woman, perched on a bit of driftwood, caught in the act of slipping off her skin. An expression of mingled shock and fright had settle upon her fine features, and every line of her body was tense and ready, prepared to flee. Her hair rippled in a tangled, wavy mass down her thin shoulders, wild and looking as if a brush had never before tamed it. The tendons under her skin were rigid, as if only utmost restraint was keeping her from fleeing. Her sealskin was bunched around her waist, her arms over her chest.

A proud smile slipped over Ivar's face.

She was utterly perfect.

Carefully, he wrapped each statuette in a layer of soft cloth, from the smallest carving of a tern to that of the selkie, though he paid extra attention to his masterpiece. Slipping them into a large basket which he balanced atop his hip, he kissed his mother on the cheek and hurried out the door toward Ragnvald's, where Ulric was sure to be waiting.

Breathing in the salty sea breeze, along with the familiar odor of fish, he made his way across the village.

Ragnvald was an elder, Surin's father, actually. The fact that he owned a horse and cart showed him to have more wealth than most, and he was the head of the small village. No big decisions were made without first consulting Ragnvald, for he was wise, and had a head for business. He had managed the village well for nigh onto a quarter of a century, governing with a strong but gentle hand.

"'Tis a pity Surin inherited none of her da's smarts," he muttered. All the girl seemed to care for was the worshiping glances of the boys of the village. Though admittedly Ivar too considered her lovely –who couldn't- he preferred his girls steadier, like Kaja or Bjork.

Or at least that was what he told himself.

"Ho, Ivar! Pick up your feet; let's get a move-on!" bellowed Ulric, waving an arm. Tall, muscular, and blond, Ulric was the golden boy of the village, the one who was the best at everything, the boy who made even the older woman blush.

But somehow, he and Ivar were friends, never letting Ulric's superior abilities get in the way. Ulric had been like an older brother to him since Helgi had moved to his wife's village farther north.

"Coming!" he called back. "Ragnvald let you borrow the horse an' cart?"

"Aye. Hurry!"

Breaking into a trot, Ivar hurried up to where Ulric sat, three baskets of fish besides him.

"Well, what you be waiting for? Gods, Ivar, why are you so slow this morning?" Ulric asked, hefting a basket to his shoulder. "I waited for…" he trailed off, counting on his fingers.

Ivar rolled his eyes. "Don't hurt yourself, 'Ric," he teased, a grin on his face. "I'm sure as hell not gonna cart all this fish out to Teirm myself if you do."

"Aww, shut up," Ulric retorted, punching him on the shoulder playfully. He easily lifted the other basket to his shoulders. "You get the last one."

Nodding, Ivar grunted as he heaved the basket up, strain showing in his face.

"'Don't hurt yourself'," Ulric quoted, lifting the baskets into the back of the cart. He patted the old mare on her dusty shoulder, fishing around in his pockets.

After depositing the fish with the rest, Ivar tossed half of a withered apple Ulric's way. "Try this."

"Thanks," his friend replied, feeding the mare the apple. He climbed up into the seat, taking the reins. "Jump up."

Ivar clambered up beside him, settling onto the uncomfortable wooden seat. "To Teirm?"

"Well, duh."

**Review if you think I'm worthy…**

**A selkie is a seal-person in Scottish folklore.**


	5. In the Court of a King

Vrael grit his teeth as the human servants brought out platter after platter of disgusting dishes containing meat, the human king, Thanebrand, blissfully oblivious to the nauseated expressions on the faces of the elven Riders. The elf sighed. _The vile customs of humans_, he remarked to Umaroth, who had also been irked at the king's assumption that the dragons were no more than animals.

_Really? I think it rather tasty, myself_, his heart-bond baited, knowing full well the reason for his Rider's discomfort.

_Umaroth…_

_The meat, so tender, the spices, divine. Such a thing I have never tasted in all my life. You should make it for me, someday, back at Vroengard._

_Please, Umaroth._

_Juice drips off your muzzle, Rider of mine. So salty, and it melts in your mouth…lightly charred, so it has just a bit of crunch…_

_That's enough! _Vrael exclaimed, irritably, bad temper increasing as his dragon laughed in his mind.

"…do you agree, Lord Vrael? Lord Vrael?"

_Vrael Shur'tugal_, the elf thought, then said, "Yes, your majesty?"

The king looked rather miffed, dark brows creasing his young, quite handsome, face. "I said that I thought the nobles should test the egg first, Lord Vrael. Perhaps even the members of the royal family…?"

_Not on your life. One all-powerful madman was more than enough. _"If it pleases you, your Majesty," he said, simply. The king smiled, then leaned toward his fair-haired wife, the daughter of the Lord of Kuasta. She murmured in his ear, and Vrael seized the opportunity to inspect the painting of the Mad King, Palancar, whom Thanebrand had killed for the crown. The fact that he still kept the painting, rather than destroying it, surprised him, though he didn't know much about the ways of the humans.

The Mad King had long, slightly wavy black hair and an olive complexion, and it was plain as to where young Thanebrand had gotten his good looks. He rested a large hand on the hilt of a sword, the famed blade, Skemmdarvargur, 'Destroyer' in the elven tongue. That blade had needlessly slain many elves, and that king had ordered the ruthless slaughter of many more. Though Vrael had fought with Queen Dellanir in that final battle, he had never been able to really study Palancar's face, and, seeing it now, he knew that he did not like what was written across it, but most especially the former king's eyes.

They were grey, a cold, hard grey, like a scratched steel blade or a frigid northern sea. Grey as a thunderhead gathering over the sea, and many times as dangerous. There was a crazed, power-hungry cast to them that he did not like, a manic lust, a craving. But this was what really unnerved Vrael: they were the eyes of a savior. This man could convince, entice, sway others, and that was how he'd gotten his position. Rumor had it that the King had borne traces of Grey Folk flowing through his veins, and Vrael realized that he believed it.

Perhaps that had been what had driven him mad.

"My wife asked how it is that the eggs know when to hatch, Lord Vrael."

Once again, Vrael sighed, resigning himself yet again to another long yammer-session.

_**EragonisanidiotEragonisanidi otEragonisanidiotEragonisani diotEragonisanidiot**_

Pulling the covers up to his chin, Vrael lit a small oil lamp with a muttered spell.

"Brisingr."

Moonlight streamed through the open windows, and a chill breeze wafted through, causing Vrael to shiver. Still, he left the window open, as he was able to see the stars. It was the only familiar thing in this…well, as idiotic as it sounded, new world. His covers seemed harsh and rough, and over-rich as well. By Wyrda, the entire room was too luxurious…it seemed heavy and unnatural, and frankly, it stank. _And I'm not the only occupant_, he thought wryly, scratching his itching scalp. Sighing, he pulled back the covers and sat up, then padded across the rush-strewn floor. Silver stars glimmered in a sky that resembled the strange new fabric he had seen today…velvet, wasn't it?

Vrael traced the familiar outline of Du Älfa Kona with the tip of his finger, a smile tugging at his lips as he saw the other figure across from her, separated by a milky band that flowed across the sky like a river, Du Gata Hvitr. His father had told him the tale of the elven maiden, Delois, and her lover, Vé, whose parents had come of two warring houses, long before the Riders, yea, even . The two had met when Delois had been wounded in a battle, and Vé, a healer of no small fame, had tended to her hurts in secret. The two had inevitably (and predictably, Vrael had always thought) fallen and love, and pledged their troth before the Council of Elders. Delois' father was enraged, casting her from the family and striking her name from the book of records. Vé's mother, however, had done far worse. A sorceress, she gave her body up as a shrine in return for a contract with the mightiest of spirits that would forever prevent the dreadful union. Such a thing was an abomination of the worst kind, and many elves were disgusted…however, her House, Sólsetur , supported her wholeheartedly.

Pursued by spirits and the Houses of Eikar and Sólsetur, Vé and Delois fled to the far north, hoping to live in peace, somewhere. But Wyrda had woven them a fate that was dark and dreadful, and happiness shunned them. Still, they managed to find what they considered refuge in a cave in the North, the Ísinnlindir. There they lived, their days full of pain and hardship, for three years, in which one child, a son, Maerzadí had been born. Maerzadí had just passed the third anniversary of his birth when the searching elves of Sólsetur finally found the trio. They were led by the mother of Vé, whose ruddy eyes gleamed with a fell light, and whose crimson hair was like freshly spilled blood. Her son quailed at the sight of his mother so changed, and his already peaceful heart grew even more reluctant to do battle. He stood as one dead as Delois and Maerzadí were pursued, eyes blank and distant. He stood, even as his mother fought Delois in a dance of steel, even as despair spread over his mate's features.

Delois was a valiant warrior, a shieldmaiden since she was young. But even the mightiest might not stand against a Shade, and she was soon fighting for her life, nay, her son's life. All too soon, however, the Shade had disarmed her, and let the tip of her blade rest in the hollow of Delois' throat. Blood dripped down the elf's pale throat, and she cried out.

The veil fell from Vé's eyes, and he started as one newly awakened. Eyes wide and blazing, both with fear and rage, he charged into the fray, hacking through elves who he had feasted with and called family, slaying them all. A grim smile was upon his face as the blood of his brother bathed his sword, but Delois was in danger, and he was invincible. Nobody could harm Delois, nobody could cause her pain. She was his, his lovely one, his flower, the mother of his child. _He would not let anyone harm her! _

He engaged his mother, face as blank as a mask. The healer, the peacemaker, Ve du Mor'anr, fought, fearlessly and well. His strokes were admittedly sloppy, and he relied more on his emotions than skill, but he was blazing and bright and wonderful, and Delois gazed upon him with amazement in her gaze as her gentle mate fought like a madmen. But it could not last. His mother—nay, the Shade—was skilled beyond measure, and she thrust her bright blade into his chest, blood blossoming from the wound and spilling down his shirt, the bright light of his eyes fading.

There the four stood.

Delois, blood trickling down her throat, tears streaming down her face, as she screamed, screamed to the heavens, ranting at the sky, cursing the cruel web Fate had woven.

Maerzadí, too young to truly comprehend what was happening, squatted next to his mother, some animal instinct causing him to shudder and gasp.

The mother of Vé, crimson eyes wide, a glint of understanding showing in them. The Shade took cruel pleasure in allowing the former mother knowledge of what she had done, and the elf keened, a high, unearthly wail that lamented the loss of her son, of her House, and of _herself_.

Vé himself, eyes glazed and blood staining his lips crimson. No life remained in him, no words to speak that his mate might treasure in her heart, to ease the pain of his mother, to comfort his son.

Then, finding some remaining vestiges of sanity, the Shade, the mother, the ruthless leader, plunged her sword into her own heart, banishing the spirit back to its own dark realm.

But it was too late for Delois. She languished, growing paler and paler, weaker and weaker, until at last she succumbed to the fate Wyrda had prepared for her.

And her is where his father added his own twist.

Delois and Vé had met at Death's Gates, and, holding hands, had passed into the hall of judgment. There grim Death had sat, enthroned upon a seat of ice and fire. For Vé was for Hall of Heroes, while Delois, the Fields of Shadows, as she had not died in battle. They were to be separated beyond the reaches of time itself.

And they had refused.

Hand in hand, they argued against Death's verdict, refusing to be parted, saying that they would rather drown in the Sea of the Void then do so.

And as they stood on the brink, preparing to obliterate themselves for all time, Wyrda, fair Wyrda, supreme authority of all placed them in the sky to keep the Way of the Ancestors forevermore.

But Vrael had never believed that part. It was unrealistic, impractical, and it encouraged dreaming.

Vrael didn't believe in dreaming, not since—

Vrael didn't believe in dreaming.

_**EragonisanidiotEragonisanidi otEragonisanidiotEragonisani diotEragonisanidiot**_

The next morning found Vrael leaning against Umaroth in the courtyard of the king's abode, watching as young lads and lasses from the whole of the valley lined up to try their chance at hatching a dragonling. A teenager with dark, curly hair was at the head of the line, the prince Calum. He was richly clothed in a burgundy tunic, and he conducted himself with pride and dignity beyond his years, yet with a humility that his older brother, Thanebrand, lacked, seen at the ease with which he gave up his place to a herd of young children. Close behind him was his sister, Finella, rich red-gold hair tumbling down her back as she threw back her head in laughter over a whispered remark by her brother. She smoothed the front of her gown, then seemed to resign herself to waiting.

Standing next to the egg was young Valí, bright eyes gleaming with laughter as he spun a little child around and around, grinning at the girl's squeals.

Vrael shook his head slightly, wondering how, exactly, that one did it. All of the others, even diplomatic Zisa, stood aloof and at a distance, regal disdain in their graceful features. Deep down, Vrael knew that they were wrong, that _he _was wrong. But humans…were, well, _humans._ He sighed as he stepped forward to commence his long-winded, verbose speech, which he had to clumsily translate into the Common Tongue as he went. He was sure he sounded like an idiot, and Vrael absolutely despised sounding like an idiot.

_If that is so, then why do you… _started Umaroth.

Vreal growled and cut off the connection.

_**EragonisanidiotEragonisanidi otEragonisanidiotEragonisani diotEragonisanidiot**_

The egg did not hatch that day. Not for Calum, nor Finella, nor the dozens of other younglings who came to try their luck. A bit of sympathy had wormed its way into Vrael's chest upon seeing the devastated look on Finella's face. He himself had been rejected multiple times before Wyrda had seen it fit to bless him with Umaroth's hatching. Could he dare rail against what would make another being as happy as he was? Did he have the right?

Vrael did not know.

**Heh…I haven't updated in forever! Don't kill me, please. School's already doing that.**

**When I need a word that the guide in the back of the books does not have, I freely consult Google Translate, using Icelandic, which seems to be a good representation of elvish. Below are the words that I used that are not from the Cycle.**

**Skemmdarvargur = Destroyer **

**Sólsetur = sun (as Paolini only mentioned a few House names, I took the liberties to add my own.)**

**Í****sinnlindir = Icelands **

**Ancient Language Terms**

**Wyrda = Fate**

**Shur'tugal = Rider**

**Brisingr = fire**

**Du ****Ä****lfa Kona = The Elf Woman**

**Du Gata Hvitr = The White Path**

**Eikar = Oak (another of my invented elven Houses)**

**Delois = a flower, however, I have used it as a name.**

**V****é**** is the name of a Norse god, while Calum and Finella are both Celtic names.**

**Read and review if you want me to continue!**

**Also, I really want a beta. Mention it in your review if you have a desire to be cursed with my rubbish before anyone else.**


End file.
